


Spells and Scars

by writersblockink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Asexual Sherlock, Drug Use, Happy Ending, Hogwarts AU, Hufflepuff!John, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock and John fix each other, Slytherin!Sherlock, Strangers to Lovers, Suicide Attempt, They're each in their fifth year, ace!sherlock, lots of triggers so please be warned, so underage I guess?, yay for ace representaion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writersblockink/pseuds/writersblockink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Room of Requirement brings them together. John keeps them that way.</p>
<p>In which Sherlock is broken, John is lost, and they find in each other the one thing they both needed more than anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> First things second, please let me know if I need to change the rating for all the triggers in this, I couldn't decide if it needed to be Mature or Teen & Up.
> 
> Second things first, thank you for reading! Comments and critiques are welcomed!

Hufflepuffs were supposed to be friendly. It was the _first_ thing a Hufflepuff was supposed to be. They were also supposed to be loyal, but you kind of needed to be  friendly to find someone to be loyal _to_. It was, John thought as he kicked a ball of parchment that littered the hall, a vicious cycle.

Not that John wasn't friendly. There were just only so many people he could stand being friendly _to._

Five years at Hogwarts, and there had only been a handful of people that John had been close to. There had been Mike, but he'd finished last year and had taken off to Romania to study dragons or some shit like that. Boring.

What Hogwarts needed was someone interesting. Wizards were great, but they were also generally boring. If something couldn't be fixed by magic, it wasn't worth figuring out to them. _Muggles,_ though, were different. When they found something they couldn't figure out, they worked until they found a solution. Wizards were mystified by ordinary muggle objects--imagine what they would do if they were introduced to _space travel_. They'd flip, that's what.

A rumbling brought him out of his thoughts, and with a start John looked up to see the stone wall cracking. No, not cracking--the lines were too straight for that, too regular. It was like someone was _etching_ them into the stone. The cracks deepened, connecting and nearly reaching the ceiling, and John was suddenly standing in front of a door that hadn't been there a minute ago.

"Hello?" he called, knocking on the now solid oak doors. When no one replied, John slowly pushed them open. A massive room spread before him, the walls and ceiling a dull grey but, John noted as he stepped inside, undeniably clean. No, clean wasn't the right word. _Sterile._ His heart raced as it dawned on him what he'd found--the infamous Room of Requirement. The Come and Go Room, and more recently known as the secret meeting place for Dumbledore's Army all those years ago. Something in the back of John's mind wondered, though, exactly _why_ he'd found it. He certainly hadn't been looking for it, and there wasn't anything he needed from a completely sterile grey box. Except-- _holy shit_.

"Oh my god," John breathed, his stomach dropping when he noticed the crumpled body in the corner. Before he knew it, he was next to the body, rolling a boy onto his back while he desperately checked for a pulse. The boy's heart was beating--barely--and John gasped when he found an empty needle.

_Where did he even get muggle drugs?_

Vomit had dried on his clothes and in his dark mess of hair; he was probably only still alive because he'd fallen over on his side, and he hadn't choked. John shoved down the thought with a shudder.

He needed to get this boy to the infirmary, and soon. The boy was taller than him, but John quickly realized that he was also much lighter. There was nothing left on his bones, and something in John's stomach told him this wasn't the first time this kid had done drugs.

John set the boy down in the middle of the room, where the lighting was better, and for the first time noticed the deep cuts on the student's wrists and arms. They were bleeding furiously, and with a numb shock, John saw the red stains in his own clothes that had come from carrying the boy.

"Shit," John swore constantly, using the words to keep himself calm enough to think through the situation. "Shit, shit, _bloody hell._ "

There was a discarded green tie back in the corner, and John scrambled to it. _Slytherin_ , his mind barely registered. He wrapped the Slytherin's tie tightly around the boy's right arm, and John used his own yellow tie to bind the left. Hopefully that would keep the bleeding down while he...

" _Shit_."

The infirmary was on the complete opposite side of the castle. There was no way he could get there before the boy died. If only Hogwarts had an emergency phone--John smacked himself. _Hogwarts_ , for fuck's sake. Five years and John still had to remind himself that magic was actually a thing. Rumor said that the Room of Requirement blocked anything they could use to track him, but if he just went outside...

John scrambled to the doors, pulling them open, and he nearly cried with relief when the infirmary stood proudly just down the hall. Had the room moved? John didn't honestly care as he slipped his arms beneath the Slytherin's knees and neck--he was just glad there was still a chance to save the Slytherin.

Madame Pomfrey rushed over as he entered, leading John to put the boy down on a bed. The infirmary was completely empty, and the Slytherin's blood stained the crisp white sheets when John placed him on them.

"What's his name?" she demanded, checking for a pulse.

"I don't know," John admitted. He felt useless, and he wrung his hands together anxiously. "I was walking and I found him, thanks to the Room of Requirement. He's in Slytherin, that's all I know." Madame Pomfrey only had time to raise her eyebrows at the mention of the Room of Requirement before the boy started to choke. She pulled him over onto his side, and the boy retched again before falling back into his uneasy sleep.

"Oh, dear," Madame Pomfrey said. "You're a mess, aren't you?" She flicked her wand, and John only realized she had been talking to him when the stains on his clothes disappeared, and he was clean again.

"I think it's cocaine, what he was taking. I found a needle."

Madame Pomfrey shook her head sadly at the boy before turning back to John. "We'll get him sorted, don't you worry. But it's time you left, so I can work." She began to usher John out the door, blocking his view of the Slytherin. John got one last glimpse of his dark hair, and he got the feeling that somewhere, he'd seen it before.

"When can I visit him?" John asked. "To make sure he's okay?"

"He won't be able to have visitors until at least tomorrow, but I'll have you called in as soon as he wakes up. What's your name, dear?"

"John Watson, fifth year." Madame Pomfrey smiled before closing the doors, and John was alone again.

Even though his clothes had been cleaned, they didn't _feel_ clean. John made it a point to hit the dorms to change before his next class. When he handed his old clothes to a house elf, she seemed to know what had been on them recently.

"...Thank you, sir," she said, holding the pile as far away from her body as she could. John wondered if she could smell the stains.

The rest of the day was torture. Even Muggle Studies, which John usually loved because the stuck up purebloods got an earful of muggle references that they never understood, seemed to loud and endless. The Slytherin boy haunted his mind--how he'd been so close to death when John found him.

What if that had been the plan, though? What if he'd _wanted_ to die? Would he hate John for saving him? John forced the thoughts away. If the Slytherin hated him, that was too damn bad. John wasn't just going to stand by and watch a fellow student die.

And after he got out of the infirmary, there was no was in hell John was letting him out of his sight.

"John?" Molly asked that evening. She placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Hm?" he mumbled. He was sitting on one of the couches around the fireplace in the Hufflepuff common room, and with a groan he realized he'd been chewing on his fingernails.

"You seem distracted," Molly said. John held back a snort. _That_ was an understatement. "What's wrong?"

John shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. He wasn't in the mood for Hufflepuff niceties tonight. "Nothing, Molly. Just tired, is all. I'm going to turn in early tonight, I think." Molly bit her lip.

"Okay," she said. "I'll have someone check on you later. Greg, maybe."

"Really, I'm fine," John said, trying to sound reassuring. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" He left before Molly could answer. John stepped through the round door that led to the boys' dormitories, and it softly shut behind him.

The Hufflepuff dorms were John's favorite rooms in the entire castle. Each bed was half hidden in its own private nook; only the foot of each bed was open to the round room. John kicked off his shoes before climbing into bed fully clothed, pulling the curtains around the foot of the bed. They effectively blocked out the fake sunlight cast by the enchanted chandeliers, and John was plunged into darkness.

The dark had always had a comforting effect on John, and he found himself thinking about how even though he couldn't relate to the other puffs, he couldn't picture himself in any other house, because none of them could give him what Hufflepuff could. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor were nice, but sleeping up so high would make him nervous. Though, John would probably fit in more in Gryffindor than he did in Hufflepuff. Slytherin lived underground, like Hufflepuff, but their common room and dorms were suffocated in the what's-lurking-in-the-shadows kind of darkness that John tended to shy away from. You had to have balls of steel to live in Slytherin. And none of the houses were as close as Hufflepuff.

John signed, wishing not for the first time that he wished he could be as close to the other puffs as they were to him.

Sometime before he fell asleep, John stripped to his boxers and fell into a fitful sleep. The prefects would throw a fit if they found out he wasn't wearing his Hogwarts-issued pajamas, but his mind was too scattered to care.

He awoke to a bright light in his eyes and someone shaking him. He squinted, and slowly a face came into focus.

"For God's sake, John!" Greg Lestrade, the Hufflepuff prefect, shouted at him. "I get pulled out of quidditch practice because I have to go and find you, and you're _here_ _?"_

Greg stepped back while John got his bearings, digging at his eyes until they stopped hurting. The chandelier was enchanted to grow brighter or dimmer depending on the time of day, and it was bright above him, like it was...

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Two in the afternoon." John's jaw dropped. "I'm at quidditch practice, minding my own business, when some kid comes running with a note from Sprout saying the infirmary is looking for you and you're not in class. You could've at least been with a girl and made it interesting on my part."

"How the hell did I sleep so late?" John asked before grumbling, "The fuckers could've woken me up."

"If there's anything I've learned my seven years here, it's that puffs are too nice to wake you up. They're bloody fantastic, but complete rubbish at giving you what you _need_." His face softened as he looked at John.

"You look bloody awful," Greg said. "Does it have to do with whatever reason the infirmary's looking for you?"

John found himself nodding. "There's someone in there I need to see." Luckily, Greg didn't push the subject. John slid out of bed, and the tile floor was warm beneath his feet from soaking up the enchanted sunlight all day. He pulled fresh clothes out of his trunk and slid into them without even thinking about a shower. It didn't phase him, having Greg in the room. John had never been shy about his body, and it wasn't like he was naked anyway.

"John," Greg said before he could leave the room. The brightness of his eyes lifted John's spirits--Greg was one of the few people at Hogwarts that John truly enjoyed being around. "If I see you in the common room without wearing some decent pajamas, I'll deduct points."

John saluted him. "Yes, sir."

Greg wouldn't actually deduct points from his own house, but it made John smile, and that was the whole point.

The chill outside brought a welcome color back to John's cheeks as he made his way to the infirmary. There was probably a passage straight to it behind one of the paintings back at the common room, but the walk was relaxing and John was more than a little nervous about facing the Slytherin. He wandered more than walked, but eventually, he was standing outside the infirmary, trying to build up enough courage to go in. He took a deep breath, throwing his shoulders back and striding into the room with more confidence than he felt.

The Slytherin boy sat calmly under the covers of his bed, sipping what smelled like pumpkin juice. He was wearing actual clothes instead of pajamas--surely he wasn't being released already? He looked up when he heard John approach, and his eyes were so bright it startled John. John looked over the Slytherin, but there was no sign that he'd nearly died of a drug overdose _yesterday_. His pale skin had the smallest hint of color to it, and John suspected that was as much color as the boy's skin got. His arms were hidden beneath the sleeves of a white dress shirt, but there didn't seem to be any binding on them. Madame Pomfrey must have healed them completely.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and their silence hung heavily in the air between them. John searched the other boy's eyes, but there was no hint of anger in them. He looked at John curiously, with just a spark of something John couldn't name. Amusement, maybe?

John cleared his throat. "Um, I'm John. Watson, I mean. John Watson. I'm the one--"

"You're the one who found me," the boy finished for him. His voice was crisp, and much deeper than John had expected. He stared at John for another minute, biting his lip softly. "I suppose...I should apologize for all this. It, _you_ , weren't...supposed to happen." He looked down at his pumpkin juice. John didn't know what to say.

"Oh," he gasped, looking back up. "My name's Sherlock Holmes, I'm in my fifth year."

John suddenly realized where he'd seen those eyes before, that mess of black hair that looked surprisingly soft when it wasn't soaked in vomit and blood. John had watched his sorting. It was odd, because the kid--Sherlock, he reminded himself--had looked so eager. Sherlock had been so small, walking up to the hat, but his excitement was written all over him.

John was fairly sure he'd been the only one to notice how big his eyes got, to see his gasped _no_ get lost in the hat's cry of _SLYTHERIN!_

"I remember you," John said. Sherlock's eyebrows raised at that, but he didn't say anything. "What?" John asked.

"People don't usually remember me," came Sherlock's reply.

John searched for something to say to that, but Madame Pomfrey rushed in, carrying a stack of parchment.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, you're free to go as soon as you sign these release forms for the records." Sherlock signed his name, scribbling what John assumed was actually just nonsense before throwing the covers off and swinging his legs over the edge.

_Had his legs always been that long?_

Sherlock walked away without another word to John, but he followed anyway. The infirmary might be willing to let a suicide risk out after one night, but John certainly wasn't. Sherlock didn't acknowledge he was there, though, as they walked down hallway after hallway, and John began to suspect that Sherlock was just walking in circles for the sake of walking. John's mind was racing with questions, and eventually, he couldn't help himself.

"So you meant to do it, then," he said. Sherlock kept his back to him, but he undoubtedly slumped just a bit. Just enough for John to know the answer to his question.

"You'll have to be more specific," Sherlock said casually. So, it was going to be _that_ game, then.

John choked out the word. "Die."

"That's irrelevant." John felt his anger begin to grow, starting in the bottom of his stomach. Sherlock only shrugged.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, gritting his teeth. Sherlock refused to look at him, but his tone was sharp when he answered.

"It means that I'm still alive, so it doesn't matter what I _meant_ to happen." He spit the last words at his feet. John clenched his fists in his pockets, willing himself to stay calm.

"It was a fucking stupid thing to do," John mumbled. "And _cocaine_ of all things."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on," John said. "There have to be a million spells to give you the same result, and you choose a common muggle drug." Sherlock snorted, shaking his head.

"Says the one who wants to be a muggle doctor."

This time it was John's turn to ask, "Excuse me? How the fuck did you figure that?" Then, quieter, "I've never told anyone."

Sherlock shrugged again. "It's obvious. The way you looked around the infirmary said you were comfortable there, maybe you're planning on interning in a couple years. But your gaze lingered next to the beds, where muggle hospitals would put monitors or IV racks. You're used to seeing them there when you visit. You bound my arms to stop the bleeding but you didn't think to use magic. Fifth year, you've learned basic first aid spells but you didn't use them--muggle healing comes to your mind first, then. You did exceptionally well with my arms, according to Madame Pomfrey, so you've had training. Muggle healing, familiar with their hospitals--muggle doctor."

The sound of Sherlock nervously tapping his fingers against the back of his other hand filled the silence that stretched out between them.

"...That...was amazing," John said, and Sherlock's fingers froze.

"You thought so?" Sherlock asked after a minute.

"Of course." They each avoided the other's eyes. "It was absolutely amazing."

Sherlock didn't reply, but the silence between them wasn't stressed anymore. It was comfortable, and John decided in that moment that Sherlock was worth whatever it would take to be loyal to him.


	2. Not Really A New Chapter

This isn't really a new chapter, and I apologize for getting anyone's hopes up (not that anyone's actually paying attention to this little fic), but I just wanted to make sure no one thought I'm abandoning it. I really want to keep going with this, but I'm so busy it's not even cool. I'm applying to college, and the deadline for my application is November first, so I can't afford to write fanfiction when I should be perfecting my short stories so I can apply to a writing program.

If I get the time, I will write the next chapter and update, but as of now, it looks like the next chapter won't be until November. I'm sorry guys, but that's how it has to be right now, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

In the meantime, I'm on twitter almost constantly, so if you want to talk to me @ragequitwriting that would be awesome! I love hearing back from people, and I'll gladly give recommendations for you to read while you wait for me to get my shit together.

Thanks!


	3. Living and Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a while! Thanks for sticking with me, October was exhausting but now college applications are done and I am FREE!
> 
> Trigger warnings for mentions of self harm and razor blades. And, as always, drug use.

“What are you going to do now?” John asked. He almost expected Sherlock to ignore him, to shrug it off, but instead he turned to face John since they’d left the infirmary. John was still shocked by his bright eyes, and the image of him only yesterday assaulted his mind again.

“Sleep,” Sherlock said. “Unfortunately, there are some things even magic can’t cure.”

“You mean withdrawal,” John replied. “So your brilliant plan, after purposefully overdosing on an addictive drug, is to go back to your dorm and wait out your withdrawal. Not bloody likely.”

Sherlock stared at him. “What?” he stuttered.”

“You’re staying with me, in Hufflepuff. At least for tonight.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?” Sherlock asked.

“Like you care about following the rules.” That one actually managed to get a small smile out of Sherlock, but John had already turned and strode towards his common room.

John had been so convinced of his plan, but the closer he got to Hufflepuff, the more his confidence left him. He could hear Sherlock following him, his dress shoes clicking down the corridors. Several times during the walk, John considered calling it off, letting Sherlock go back to his own dorm if he wanted, but the thought of Sherlock spending the night alone, finishing the job, kept his shoulders back and his head up.

When they reached the door to the common room, John suddenly saw his home through the eyes of a stranger. Sherlock gazed around and John could see what he saw—a scene straight out of the Shire. The Hufflepuff common room was decorated to feel like the outdoors, and every door is circular, like Hobbit hole doors.

The first time John had seen it, he’d thought it was perfect. Imagine, living in the place that inspired the famous Hufflepuff alumni’s books. But now, looking at it through Sherlock’s gaze, it felt ugly.

Slowly, the students lounging around the room noticed Sherlock. They stared, but it was out of curiosity rather than anger at seeing a _Slytherin_ of all people standing in their dorms.

John pushed Sherlock forward. He was already tired of all the staring, and Sherlock had seemed to freeze up, like a deer in headlights. Before they could get to the comfort of a private dorm, Molly came running over to them.

“John!” she said, looking at Sherlock. “Who’s this?”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock replied, holding out his hand. John realized that it had been nearly twenty four hours since Sherlock had had any drugs, and he was beginning to shake. Molly didn’t notice, shaking Sherlock’s hand shyly.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. “I’m Molly.”

“It’s a pleasure.” John didn’t miss the quiet urgency of his words.

“Sherlock’s going to be staying with me tonight,” John interrupted. “But he really needs to sleep, so I need to go get him set up and I’ll be right back.” He pushed Sherlock towards the dorms, and the way Sherlock was starting to stumble didn’t slip past him.

“I’m actually the only one in here,” John admitted. “People have a…hard time dealing with me.”

Whatever elegance Sherlock had been forcing for Molly was gone. He no longer tried to hide his trembling, and John could tell he was barely able to stay on his feet. Slowly, he pulled out his wand and put it to his inner elbow.

“What are you doing?” John demanded, fully prepared to take away Sherlock’s wand away if he had to.

“Spell,” Sherlock stuttered. “Just takes the edge off, stops me from shaking so much.”

“You’re _still_ doing cocaine? In here, are you mad?”

“It’s not coke, I swear. It’ll help with…withdrawal.” Sherlock said the last word with more than a hint of fear, and for the first time he felt that Sherlock was agreeing to going through what John had implied this was the beginning of. John backed off, nodding, and Sherlock whispered a spell that sent a silver spark into his elbow. Almost immediately, Sherlock stopped shaking, and he opened his eyes wider, like he’d just recovered from a headache as well.

He looked up from his arm and stared at John, trapping him in his gaze. Then, as quickly as he’d trapped John, he released him, looking around the room.

John tried to find something that would fit Sherlock, but it was quickly obvious that nothing John owned would stay on his slim frame.

“Do you want me to sleep in, um…” Sherlock gestured to his clothes.

“No, god, no,” John said. “I don’t have anything that would fit you, but god, I don’t expect you to sleep in that. Feel free to sleep in your boxers or…whatever.”

 _Holy fuck_.

John shoved his hands in his pockets, looking away. “I’m gonna go explain to Molly what’s going on. I won’t tell her about the drugs, obviously, but…” Sherlock nodded, too exhausted to care.

Molly was waiting for him when he made it back to the common room.

“Who was _that_?” Molly jumped on him.

“He’s just a friend,” John replied. “He’s had a rough few days and I didn’t want him to be alone in case…he did something stupid.”

“A friend?” John sighed. Of course that’s what Molly would catch out of that. “No offense, John, but you don’t have friends.”

“Thanks,” John replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t be like that, you say it yourself. You have me, and Greg, on a good day, but besides us, you just don’t talk to anyone else.”

She was right, of course, but John wasn’t in the mood to be reminded of his antisocial tendencies.

“Anyway, I probably should stick with him tomorrow, so would you mind bringing me my assignments?”

“Sure,” Molly said slowly, furrowing her brows. “What happened to him, John?”

A look told Molly that he wasn’t going to tell her.

“I’ve just never seen you like this—worried about a stranger. He must be very special.”

Something stirred in his stomach, and John couldn’t shake the feeling that she was right. Sherlock was special, but even as John told Molly goodnight, he couldn’t figure out why. Something in Sherlock made John want to protect him, no matter what.

“I’ll have Greg check on you in the morning,” Molly called before he disappeared.

“You know he’s not my babysitter, right?” John replied, unable to hide his smile.

Molly shrugged. “Someone has to be.”

By the time John got back to his dorm, Sherlock was passed out. He was asleep on the bed nearest to John’s, flat on his stomach with both arms hung over the sides like he’s collapsed there. Which, John reminded himself, he probably had. John slipped into bed, pulling out a roll of parchment and a quill. If he was going to stay up and watch Sherlock, he figured, he might as well get his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay done.

“Lumos,” John whispered, and his bed nook was illuminated in a soft light.

Sometime the next morning, John awoke to the enchanted sunlight streaming through the curtains around his bed. The brightness told him that it was nearly noon, but John wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock still fast asleep. At some point, Sherlock had curled into a ball, and it struck John how very _small_ he looked.

A package sat on the floor by the foot of his bed, and when John opened it, he found that it was filled with a bundle of shirts and sweatpants, along with a note from Greg.

 _I’d better not catch_ him _without sleeping clothes on either. These should fit better than anything you’ve got. –Lestrade_

John rolled his eyes at Greg’s insistence on using his own last name. Holding the clothes up, though, John admitted that he was right. Greg wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, but he was closer to his height than John was, and the clothes looked like they would work for now. Still, Sherlock didn’t look like he’d be up for leaving the dorms for a while.

Only two hours later, Sherlock stumbled into the common room. John had left the clothes at the foot of his bed for him, before he’d gone to study in front of the fireplace. The shirt hung loosely on him, and Sherlock had pulled the sweatpants down low on his hips to reduce the amount of ankle showing. The result, however, was a strip of stomach that showed when he raised his arms, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Whatcha need?” John asked. Sherlock jumped, like he hadn’t seen John sitting there.

“Um…” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “’M hungry.”

John grinned. “I can help with that.”

He watched Sherlock closely as he led them across the room. John knew the general signs of withdrawal, but it was different for everyone. Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fists obsessively—what was causing that? Headaches? Anger? John guessed that even Sherlock probably didn’t know.

“Here we are,” John announced as he approached a painting of rolling hills and circular doors—the Shire. Tolkien was in there somewhere, but he only spoke to students if they had something interesting to talk about.

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. Headaches, definitely. “’S a painting.”

“It’s a door, it’ll take us right to the kitchen.” John opened the door dramatically, but Sherlock stumbled through, too out of it to be impressed. It was a short walk, and soon the kitchen spread out in front of them, milling with activity.

“Hello, Master Watson!” a house elf, Guinevere, called. An echo of similar greetings followed, and John smiled.

“Hi, Guinevere. Where did you get those?” John gestured to a box she was holding, filled nearly to the top with razor blades.

Her smile disappeared as she looked at them. “Oh. Masters were sad, and they were hurting. So, Guinevere took their hurting tools.”

John bent down to give her a hug. “Thank you for doing that. Don’t let them hurt themselves, alright? You’re doing a great thing.”

“Thank you, Master Watson.” John had stopped trying to correct her long ago. House elves were always going to be overly formal like that. Guinevere set the box under a shelf, hidden away.

“What brings you here with your friend, Master Watson?” she asked.

“This is Sherlock, he needs something to eat.” Gesturing to Sherlock, John realized that he had his eyes clamped shut, and he was holding his head. The lighting was way too bright for him, and John wanted to smack himself for not paying attention to it.

Guinevere nodded, but John caught her before she could run off to prepare some huge meal. “I’m going to take Sherlock back to the passage so the light doesn’t hurt his head anymore. Could you bring him something healthy? Nothing with too much sugar.”

“Right away, Master Watson!” she replied, scampering off. John led Sherlock back into the safe darkness of the tunnel, one hand behind his shoulders and the other gently pulling on his arm. He followed without resistance, and once the light disappeared, Sherlock sighed with relief. He looked at John, his eyes begging.

“I need it,” he whimpered, rubbing his inner elbow. “Give it to me.”

“Not a chance. Sit down, Ginny’s going to bring you something to eat.”

“Please,” Sherlock begged, collapsing against the wall. “I need it.”

“What you need is food and rest.” Sherlock dug at his eyes, but he stayed where he was. Watching John for permission, he pulled his wand out and whispered the same spell he had last night. John pursed his lips, but it didn’t look like Sherlock was doing too much; just enough to take the edge off.

Guinevere returned, carrying a tray with small bowls of fruit, vegetables, and a bite sized cake to top everything off. “Here you go, Master Sherlock,” she said happily, setting the tray in front of him.

“Ginny, I said no sweets,” John argued, but Sherlock ate it first, before anyone could take it away.

“Can I have another?” Sherlock asked her.

“Only if you eat the rest of your food first,” John answered for her. “God, I sound like your mother. Eat your damn food.”

It occurred suddenly to John that Sherlock was acting like a completely different person from when he left the hospital wing. Gone was the confident boy that stuck his nose up at others. John wondered how long it would be before that boy came back.

Sherlock picked at the vegetables, but the light didn’t seem to be bothering him as much when they went back to the dorm. He fell back into bed again, and slept the rest of the day.

They fell into a simple routine, Sherlock and John. Sherlock slept most of the time, except for meals, and John began waiting for Sherlock to eat his own meals. Guinevere learned their schedule, and usually had plates ready for them when they walked into the kitchen once or twice a day. In his five years at Hogwarts, John had never felt more at home. Sherlock seemed to better too; his headaches started to lessen, and slowly, his confidence came back.

“John,” Greg called across the common room. Molly was right on his heels, and they approached John hand in hand. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” John answered slowly, looking between them. “What’s this about?”

“Um,” Greg started, running his free hand through his hair. “We’re just worried about your classes.”

“I’ve done all my assignments. Quite well, I might add.”

“It’s been five days and you haven’t left the dorms. You need to get out,” Molly cut in.

“Sherlock needs me here. And besides, it’s been really calming, being here alone all day. I get my work done, I study more than I used to—“

“But you need to be going to class, talking to people, socializing.”

“I’m sure no one’s missed me,” John said, trying not to spit it. “I never spoke to anyone anyway, right?”

“John—“

“No, don’t play me, Greg. Sherlock needs me more than the rest of the bloody school does, and that’s that.” Greg looked at Molly, and suddenly the two of them were dragging John towards the dorms. They stopped in a quiet window alcove, and John looked between them.

“John…” Molly said, taking Greg’s hand again. “We think you should let Sherlock go back to his own dorm. In Slytherin.”

“Why? He was dying there. No, he’s safer with me.”

“He’s trouble, John. And not just because of the drugs.”

John froze. “You know about the drugs?”

“I looked into him the first day he stayed here. And we appreciate what you’re doing for him, John, but he’s nothing but trouble.”

“If you’re worried about _me_ getting dragged into drugs, you’re sorely—“

“No,” Greg cut him off. “I mean…he comes from a bad family. People you don’t want to get mixed up with. His older brother is in my year, Mycroft. Most arrogant son of a bitch I’ve ever met, but he has more power than Dumbledore over what goes on in this school.”

“So he’s in Slytherin, like Sherlock?”

“No, Ravenclaw, but he may as well be Slytherin for the crowd he hangs out with. A bad bunch, John.”

John shook his head. “I’m not giving up on Sherlock, and I’m not sending him back to his dorms until he’s better and _wants_ to leave. But I’ll go to classes tomorrow, deal?” Greg pursed his lips, but Molly nodded quickly and hugged John before he could react.

“Deal,” she said, smiling. John didn’t smile back. The very last thing he wanted to do was go back to class, but he was tired of arguing and just wanted them off his back.

 _This_ , John thought as he found the first excuse to get away from them _, is why you don’t have any friends._

The next morning, John was barely able to drag himself out of bed. He left a note to Sherlock, letting him know where he was and that the kitchen was there if he got hungry. He added hopefully that if Sherlock needed him, he would absolutely skip the rest of his classes and help him. Anything to get him out of his deal with Greg.

John suffered through his classes gracefully; biting his tongue to keep from snapping at classmates in the halls, taking decent notes, holding polite conversation with Greg and Molly, nodding when they asked if he felt better going back to class—he didn’t mean a word of it, but it got him through the day. When his final class ended, John bolted for the door. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rushed through the halls, eager to get back to the privacy of his dorm.

He grunted as he ran straight into a black cane, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Bloody hell—“ John gasped as the wind got knocked out of him, but he immediately stopped when he saw who the cane belonged to. The student was leaning casually against the wall, staring at John in amusement. He smiled, but it was infinitely more intimidating than it was friendly.

“John Watson,” he said matter-of-factly. “We meet at last.” The hallway was suddenly deserted, and John felt much too exposed under the boy’s gaze.

“Have we met?” John asked, straightening his back to add _something_ to his height. The student straightened his blue Ravenclaw tie, leaning on his cane.

“I believe you know my brother; I’d like to discuss him, if you would be so kind as to humour me for a moment.” It wasn’t a request.

“You’re Mycroft,” John said, understanding.

“My reputation precedes me, it would seem. Tell me, why exactly have you taken after my brother’s care? You’re not usually one for hospitalities, especially by Hufflepuff standards.” Mycroft flashed a condescending smile, and it made John’s stomach twist.

“I haven’t…taken to _him_ , if that’s what you’re trying to imply. I barely know him.”

“And yet…” Mycroft pulled out a small black book, flipping it open and peering at it curiously. “ _Sherlock needs me more than the rest of the bloody school does, and that’s that._ You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly, Mr. Watson.”

John’s jaw hung open. “H-how did you hear that?” he asked.

“I have many paintings that owe me favors, and a good number of them in Hufflepuff.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I only want to be sure that my brother is in capable hands.”

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you look after him?” John resisted the urge to feel too proud of himself as Mycroft’s stone smirk cracked, just for a second.

“Sherlock can be…difficult when it comes to me. We do have quite a history.”

“Well then, I’ll continue being the only person around that actually cares whether he lives or dies, and you can continue having paintings spy on him for you. Sound good?”

With that, John stalked away, leaving Mycroft standing alone in the hall. He didn’t try to follow him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY A NEW CHAPTER. It's been over a month but now it's time for NaNoWriMo and that means getting off my lazy ass and making time to write whether I have homework or not. Who needs to study for classes? NOT ME! So hopefully we'll have lots of new chapters this month, and I'll be updating my other fic too so watch for that.
> 
> If you like what I'm doing and you'd like to see more of it, follow my twitter @ragequitwriting to do...that. I know this is only the second real chapter but 300 hits is huge and thank you so much for reading. I love these characters so much and I try to do them justice, and knowing people are taking the time to read it means a lot. Hey, thanks.


	4. Of Lions and Eagles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mentions of suicide and drug abuse.

Talk about an adrenaline rush. Blowing off Mycroft Holmes was by far the most dangerous thing John had ever done. And damn, if he didn’t feel on top of the world. John could feel his stride loosen, until he was fucking _strutting_ down the corridor. He felt, well, he felt like a Gryffindor.

He froze in his tracks when he got back to his dorm. Sherlock was standing in front of a mirror, inspecting the tie he wore around his neck.

“Oh,” Sherlock said when he finally noticed John. “Good, you’re back.” He looked just like he had back at the infirmary, if just a bit worse for wear. There were still dark bags under his eyes, his skin was paler, if that was possible, than then, and his shirt was wrinkled and clumsily rolled up at the sleeves, but the confidence was back. The arrogance.

“Are you feeling better?” John asked. It was all he could think to say. He’d thought…well, he didn’t know what he’d thought, but seeing that green tie around Sherlock’s neck crashed him back to reality. Sherlock would go back to his house and forget all about the Hufflepuff that had helped him, and John would go back to being a lion amongst sheep. Or, a lion amongst badgers. It wasn’t a perfect metaphor.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed to the mirror. “I think the worst of it has passed.” He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, and neither said anything for a long minute.

“So I guess this is goodb—”

“I need some air—”

They both cut off mid sentence, and Sherlock seemed just as much at a loss for words as John.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” John asked, shifting on his feet.

“I…just said I needed some air. There aren’t any windows down here. I need to see the sky.” John snorted down a laugh, and immediately regretted it. Sherlock looked like he’d just been beaten.

“No, I just meant, it’s odd to hear that, coming from a Slytherin. Your common room is in the dungeon, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Does that mean you’re not coming?”

“What?” His blood physically stopped in his chest, pooled in his ears. Obviously he’d heard wrong.

“Judging by the way you’ve hardly left my side in a week, I’d just assumed that you wouldn’t quit it now.” God help him, Sherlock looked absolutely lost standing in the middle of that room. Arrogant? Yes, but his eyes reminded John of those puppies you find in a box on the side of the road with a sign that says _free to a good home_ tied to its neck.

Sherlock looked around the room one final time when John didn’t answer. He straightened his back and stared straight ahead, not at John, as he walked out. John could hear his shoes growing fainter, but he couldn’t move. His mind flashed to how he felt before all this, just a week ago. He’d been alone then.

“Wait,” John yelped, bolting out the door after Sherlock. He turned, shocked, as John sprinted towards him. “God, yes, I’m going with you.”

It was met with the first genuine smile John had seen from him yet.

They left the common room together. John could feel the eyes on him as they walked, close enough to tell everyone that they were, without a doubt, with each other. Whatever that meant.

Sherlock led the way, taking them up staircase after staircase until John wasn’t exactly sure where they were going. John tried to think of something, anything, to say, but his mind was everywhere but his head. Finally, Sherlock stopped at a tiny painting just down the hall from the Ravenclaw common room.

John stared at the common room. “Are we sneaking into Ravenclaw? We could get expelled for that, no way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’d rather not be surrounded by those idiots. The Ravenclaw tower just has the best views in the entire castle.” Sherlock pulled the small painting open, revealing a staircase just short enough to catch his curls when he began to climb it.

“Lumos,” John whispered, pulling out his wand. The staircase took them up in a spiral, like it was going around the entire tower, just beneath the walls.

“I met your brother today,” John said, breaking the silence. “Apparently he’s been spying on you.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me too?”

“What? No.”

“Pity, you should have stayed longer. We could’ve split it.”

“Mycroft is…” John struggled for the word. “Interesting.”

“He’s tedious, and manipulative,” Sherlock snapped. John shut his mouth. If talking about his brother made Sherlock like that, John didn’t want to mention it again. Neither of them spoke until they reached the end of the stairs, and Sherlock pushed open a door.

John’s jaw dropped as he stepped out onto the tower roof. He held onto the tip of the lightning rod just above the door, careful to plant his feet firmly on the slope. They could see everything. The Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, the Shrieking Shack, John could see it all. It was…incredible.

“Sherlock,” John breathed. “This is— _Sherlock_!” Sherlock was standing right on the edge of the roof, his arms straight out, staring up at the sky. John reached out towards him to catch him before he fell or worse—jumped. But Sherlock was steady, letting the wind blow through him, and it occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock wasn’t a snake at all.

Perhaps, he was an eagle.

Maybe Sherlock wasn’t meant to be kept below, in the dark. He needed to fly, where everyone could see him high above them.

“I’ve missed it up here,” Sherlock eventually said. He slowly looked back at John, lowering himself until he was sitting on the edge of the roof. John edged closer to him until they were side by side, hanging their legs off.

“I can see why you love it. It’s amazing.”

“I’m the only one that knows it’s here. Well, and you now too, I suppose.”

The weight of what Sherlock had given him hit John and rested on his shoulders like a heavy blanket. This place wasn’t just a place to Sherlock, it _was_ him. It was everything Sherlock wanted to be, his escape. Up here, he was _free_.

Suddenly, John wasn’t so afraid of falling. Sherlock would keep him safe. But at the same time, Sherlock needed John to protect him, too. John couldn’t explain what it was about Sherlock that drew John to him. It was like, he looked at Sherlock, and he was home.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said to the lake. “For saving me.”

“I wasn’t going to let you die.” John waited for Sherlock to look at him, but he only stared out at the grounds. “Sherlock.” Ah, there they were—those piercing eyes. In the light, they were a bright blue-green.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated. John had the absurd urge to kiss him then; he wanted to kiss him for being so beautiful, for making John think he was going to die. For making him feel so alive.

Sherlock tore his eyes away and went back to staring at the ground.

“I used to hate being in Slytherin,” Sherlock said. “I thought the Sorting Hat made a mistake—I knew I belonged in Ravenclaw. But then I realized that Slytherin was where I really did belong, with the hated and everything else the school wanted to keep hidden away.”

Sherlock was so fucking alone, and seeing him stare at the ground right below them, just a jump away, shattered every piece of John’s heart.

“That’s not true,” John insisted. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes wide. “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and Ravenclaw would have held you down.”

Sherlock stared blankly at John. “What?”

“Living in your brother’s shadow? You wouldn’t have been able to breathe. They say that Slytherin is for people who have something to prove.” John let out a dry laugh, just at the idea that nobody had ever told Sherlock this before.

“Sherlock, you have fucking everything to prove.” Sherlock didn’t reply, and after a moment, John leaned back until he was laying down against the slope of the roof. He hoped that if everything he’d just said assured Sherlock of anything, it was that John wasn’t going anywhere. He stared at Sherlock, silhouetted by the setting sun. His perfectly messy curly hair, his lanky body that was all limbs, his…perfection. John missed his eyes.

“Why, John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“What?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then he was facing John. He placed a shaking hand on the roof between them, reaching for him. “Why did you help me?”

“I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“No…” Sherlock looked around, wringing his hands together. “Why did you _help_ me, why did you take me to Hufflepuff? I just—I don’t understand. _Why?_ ”

John stared at Sherlock, pleading and confused. “I…don’t know, Sherlock. I just had to.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not good enough, it’s not…” John sat up, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Look at me, hey. Sherlock.” Sherlock’s entire body was shaking as he finally looked at him. “If you’d gone back to Slytherin, you would have gone right back to the drugs. I know you would have. I had to make sure you were okay, I couldn’t let you…” He trailed off as he realized Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention to his words. His eyes were flitting back and forth between John’s eyes and somewhere slightly lower.

“Sherlock, can I kiss you?” John asked. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and he leaned back slightly.

“I’m asexual,” Sherlock whispered, staring at John’s lips.

“Does that mean I can’t?” He watched Sherlock take a deep breath, lean forward, and gently press his lips to John’s. John closed his eyes, savoring the softness of the touch, the feel of the wind on his skin as he reached for Sherlock’s hand. The pressure against his lips leaned into him, parting just slightly. John took the hint. He parted his own lips, deepening the kiss, reaching for Sherlock to pull him closer and—

Sherlock jerked away, his face flushed. “I’m sorry, it just made me uncomfortable,” he mumbled.

“No, it’s alright, I didn’t mean to make you upset.” But Sherlock didn’t look _upset_ , he looked…impossible to read. Sherlock looked away and John couldn’t see if the flush in his face was from embarrassment or something else.

“You didn’t, I wanted to,” Sherlock said. “Did I do it right?”

“What? You mean that was your first kiss?” John wasn’t very experienced himself—he’d kissed a couple girls before, a guy once—but Sherlock?

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his face going red all over again. “Was it that obvious?”

“No, no, I just don’t see how nobody’s ever shown interest in you before.”

“Oh, plenty of girls have. Not my type though. They were boring.”

“And I’m…not? Boring, I mean.”

Sherlock looked up at him from beneath his wild mess of curls. “No,” he whispered.

They stayed on the roof until well after it got dark, Sherlock naming constellations and John inching closer to Sherlock until they were shoulder to shoulder. In the middle of Sherlock explaining the significance of the North Star in muggle history, John slowly laced his fingers through Sherlock’s. Sherlock froze, his free hand still pointing to the star.

John had crossed a line. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away.

“No,” Sherlock replied, closing his fingers tightly around John’s. “No, it’s…it’s fine. I don’t mind.” He took a deep breath, and went right back into where he had left off. John slowly let out the breath he’d been holding, focusing on Sherlock’s silhouette in the moonlight, the way he smiled ever so slightly when he was talking about something he loved…

“—John?”

“Wh-what?” John jerked back into the present to find Sherlock leaning over towards him.

“I asked if you were cold. It’s getting chilly out.”

“Oh,” John blinked, noticing for the first time the frigid breeze blowing across his skin. “Yeah, it’s a little cold.”

“Do you want to go back to the dorm?” _The_ dorm. It belonged to both of them now.

“Yes, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me through all of this, it means so much to me to have all my readers. I look forward to every comment and kudo that I get. This week my literature teacher told me that if I go to college for creative writing, I'll only ever end up as a prostitute. It really hurt, but every time I look at my hit counter and I see it go up, I remember that I can do anything I want. People tend to forget that fanfiction is writing too, and can be beautiful.
> 
> If you like what I'm doing and you want to see more of it, follow me on twitter @ragequitwriting. I love answering questions, talking with readers, and most of all discussing my fics.
> 
> Hey. Thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you like what I'm doing and you want to see more of it, follow my twitter @ragequitwriting if you want to give suggestions, talk about fics in general, or want updates on when I'm posting new stuff.  
> That would be cool of you.


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